Sear and Sunder
by blood-songs
Summary: It's bleak, Harry thinks. Their future is so bleak. They've barely begun, and this is what they've already become.  Warning: Heavy slash, NC-17


Harry brushes soot and all manners of unspeakable grime off of himself as he steps out of the fireplace gingerly, looking around Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. "I'm back," Harry calls out uncertainly, unsure of whether he'll be getting an audible reply to that, and shrugs off his Auror robes anyway.

Tired, he places them carefully over the back of a chair, noting the dinner dishes on the table and a hastily folded issue of The Daily Prophet. The kitchen smells of pumpkin soup, warm and welcoming, and Harry blinks in surprise. They usually have takeout; Draco had never wanted Harry to cook before, let alone do it himself.

Perhaps there was hope for whatever was bubbling between the two of them, after all, for the strange tug-and-pull of their relationship.

Draco walks down, concentrated expression lifting in surprise with his hair askew. "If it isn't Potter," he starts, a slightly nervous grin stretching his too-sharp face as he moves over to Harry. The trepidation on his face dissolves slowly as he yanks Harry close, biting into a kiss. Harry feels the smile on his lips as he kisses back, relieved, and breathes in the unlikely combination of soup and soap and cologne.

"Hello to you, too, Malfoy," he murmurs against those wicked lips, pulling away. Draco's eyes lock with his, and there's a comfortable yet awkward silence as they just stay that way for a while, looking their fill. A firm and elegant wrist rests against Harry's as Draco rubs the back of his hand absently with his thumb, little circles of unspoken words.

Harry clears his throat, tries to not feel regret when Draco's eyes snap up and are no longer hidden beneath those dusty lashes. "You made dinner?"

"Ten points to Gryffindor for unexpected observation skills," Draco murmurs, a little distractedly, shifting his gaze away from Harry's and dropping his eyes to Harry's wrists. Harry thinks Draco has a bit of a hand fixation. "I didn't really want to have takeout this time, and it was too much trouble to go all the way and pick up some tandoori, so I. Well, we had a pumpkin. I just…"

Laughing, Harry leans his forehead against Draco's. "It's fine, Draco, you…" _You don't have to make excuses_, he wants to say, _it's all right to want to do what you want to do, it's all right to just_ — Harry wants to reassure him, but the stubborn jut to Draco's chin warns him without words that that's probably not the wisest thing to bring up just now. "It's fine," Harry says instead. "It's just fine."

He doesn't know how he missed the tension coiling sharp in Draco's shoulders, but he feels it ease and ebb away at his words. Draco exhales, almost shakily, and Harry doesn't miss the slight trembling this time. "All right."

Harry doesn't move, but rubs the back of his knuckles against Draco's pale cheek instead, quietly. "It's fine," he repeats gently, and feels something break inside him when Draco's expression shutters, closing off a little, so that Harry can't read what's in those gray eyes anymore.

Next thing he knows, Draco's sidestepped him smartly to the table, tension back in that wiry frame again. Harry feels his chapped, bitten nails dig painfully into his skin as he curls his hands into fists — not in anger, but in unwilling resignation — but fixes a tight smile on his face as he sits down, trying to not let his hurt show.

Bloody Malfoys and their bloody emotional walls. If he could only _understand_ —

"Is this enough for you?" Draco interrupts a little curtly, but his eyes are tentatively meeting Harry's now in what he probably assumes is somewhat of a peace offering. Harry sighs, and takes the bowl while nodding. "More than enough, don't worry about it; thank you. How was work at the apothecary?"

"Not bad."

They face each other, and the air is layered thick with affection and frustration both, emanating from them in equal amounts. No words are exchanged for a while, and Harry turns his attention to his soup instead, which is really rather good even if it does taste a little this side of burnt, but the texture's great and it goes well with the Turkish bread Draco picked up earlier.

He's taking another sip when he feels a hand sliding surreptitiously up against one of his own, an alien warmth that envelops him. A little startled, Harry glances askance at Draco, whose mouth is set in a stubborn line even as he brushes Harry's hand again, turning Harry's palm over slowly so that it meets his instead in a gentle embrace of fingers, squeezing.

Silence hangs like a cloud, occasionally broken by the quiet knocking of cutlery against bowls as they finish up their soup and pasta, their hands still intertwined like ropes throughout.

When the dishes are done and Draco walks away from the sink, tucking away his wand, Harry leans against the wall near the stairs. He takes in how Draco looks in his home, self-conscious but determined, to prove a point to Harry (or himself?) he doesn't even seem to fully comprehend.

Two months since they started this peculiar dance of courtship, since they moved in together and not really, since they fell into this disturbing, distorted tangle of desire that Harry has no intention of ever trying to escape. It feels more like two years, every breathless day seeming longer than the last.

His heart burns fiercely with longing, with desperate love for the man in front of him who is so, so near, and yet so impossibly distant. Who tells him he returns his feelings, who wants him too, but who feels as though he could slip away at a moment's notice, who never says what is on his mind.

Draco is in front of him now, real and raw and _here_ as he slips an arm around Harry's waist, leaning to mouth insistently at Harry's neck. "Come to bed," he implores, voice rough and a little unsure tonight. "Come on, Harry."

His eyes are hooded, face turned away in the dark. Harry wonders if he's regretting now: regretting cooking, regretting doing something so domestic; something so simple that would be laughable if not for the fact that he knows that Draco is fucking _terrified_, terrified of what all this means.

Harry understands, even if Draco thinks he doesn't. He tries to be patient, he does, he tries to love and cajole and pepper reassurances in casual conversations, but it never feels like it's enough but Draco is afraid still, proud and stubborn and strong and strung so tightly that Harry feels he might break if he pushes this, pushes them too far one day. For all the passion and surprisingly tender moments they have, Harry feels Draco slipping away from him a little more with every unaddressed doubt, every lingering touch.

It can't go on like this, not for long.

Draco will never admit to love, ever, not out loud, and never admits his fear. Never tells Harry he loves him, needs him, except without words. He shoves Harry against the door to their bedroom, his kisses reverent against Harry's skin like they always are, full of wonder and awe as he touches and bites and draws his lips over Harry's skin.

The way he clings so fiercely to Harry makes Harry feel as if Harry is one of the fey, someone who will disappear come morning, someone who will ultimately leave him after tonight. After every night.

Something in Harry clenches tight and unforgiving at that, misplaced anger at Draco, at _himself_, for not being enough to assuage Draco's fears, for not being enough to convince him to please be brave, take this plunge for Harry, for them. To love, to trust.

Harry feels so fucking helpless.

He snakes a hand up to Draco's neck, pulling almost cruelly at the wispy blond hairs there and elicits a surprised groan from Draco. Harry takes advantage of that momentary distraction to pull Draco around and slam the taller man against the wall instead, pressing as he leaves bruises on Draco's neck, savage and possessive. He feels no guilt at marring that pale skin, only a sick kind of satisfaction. Something burns hot and snakelike inside him, furious and snarling as he shoves a hand up Draco's shirt, gripping his hips roughly so that they are flush against one another, hot and hard.

"The bed—" Draco begins half-heartedly, dipping his head to trail a tongue up to Harry's ear, teasing, completely at odds with his insistent hand moving between the two of them to palm Harry's erection through his pants. He doesn't mean it, doesn't mean to move, when they could come just like this, quick and distraught and wanting. So much wanting.

Harry bites back a groan, sinks his fingers into flesh and moves to hiss, voice husky and fierce and commanding, "I will fuck you against this wall right here, right now, and there is nothing you can do about it." There is no room for compromise for Harry, not tonight. The anger and helplessness in him has reached a tipping point, and he's tired, so fucking _tired_.

Draco lets out a choked whimper at that, at Harry's green eyes dark with lust and some unidentified brand of fury, his words brooking no argument, and he bucks against Harry, rocking his hips up as Harry yanks his trousers down and off, whispers a quick spell and slides his fingers inside Draco's tight heat.

The effect is instantaneous; Draco squeezes his eyes shut and pants, throwing his head back as he digs his nails into Harry's back, sharp and sweet. Harry lays a trail of kisses down that trembling neck, nuzzling Draco's skin as he gulps and struggles to breathe through the pain and pleasure and keeps a rhythm, teasing him, taunting him, pulling Draco to the brink as he twists and presses _up_, driving Draco wild.

"Harry," Draco manages, almost incoherent at this point, pliant in Harry's hands, and Harry kisses his lips softly, fascinated at the image the two of them must make. He is so, so taken in by Draco being open like this, open in a way he never is, vulnerable only when he is falling apart under Harry's ministrations, the naked desire and desperate love in his eyes blazing like a furnace. "Harry — Harry, I can't, now, Harry, _fuck_," Draco begs without begging, for more, for Harry to be rougher, for Harry to take him, for now, now, _now._

"Soon, Draco," Harry grinds out against Draco's neck, scraping that delicate line with his teeth, undoing his own pants to move against Draco, skin-to-skin, still teasing and preparing him as Draco mewls, slowly coming undone. He shifts his position, lifts one of Draco's legs and lines him up, full of promise. "Are you ready then?" Harry asks quietly, circling his cockhead at Draco's entrance, feeling Draco shudder and tremble.

Draco's breath hitches. "Yes," he groans, long and heartfelt, and so Harry _pushes_, and then he's in and Draco's wet and willing around him. Here, as they begin to fuck in earnest, they can forget about everything that's plaguing them, forget about the disintegration of their not-relationship, forget about Draco's withdrawal, forget about Harry's helplessness. It's just them, and now, and the pleasure that sears through them, a white-hot burn.

They move and moan, drawing blood with teeth and nails between thrusts, their skin slick with sweat as they give in to the inevitable, losing themselves completely to the force of their orgasms later. Harry pulls out and supports Draco, who's weak-kneed against the wall, breath coming quickly in short gasps as he attempts to regain his balance, hand clutching Harry's shoulder. Harry ignores the dull pain of knowing Draco only exposes himself like this at night, at his keenest during sex, and counts down the minutes until he folds in and closes himself off once more.

"Draco," Harry whispers, leading him to the bed and pushing him gently so that Draco is sitting, and straddles him. He mouths at Draco's chin, Draco's cheek, paints little patterns on Draco's brow with his lips, willing and willing for Draco to feel, to know, to understand Harry's love for him, overwhelming in its intensity, so much that it sometimes makes Harry feels like he's drowning.

Drowning alone.

Draco makes a broken sound, something like acceptance and surrender, and moves to meet Harry's lips with his own. It tastes like an apology, a question. _Why are you still with me, _Draco seems to ask as their mouths meet again and again, _why do you not leave me?_

Heady and reeling with desire, Harry laughs a little against Draco's lips, murmurs, "I love you."

Draco freezes, hand gripping Harry's arm so tightly it hurts. Harry presses his cheek against Draco's, unperturbed and reckless. "I love you," he says again, feeling Draco trembling against him, "_I love you_ —"

"Harry, don't —" Draco begins, and Harry cuts him off, swiping his tongue over that full bottom lip, kissing him with abandon until Draco is breathless and half-hard and shaking. "Harry, I'm —" He attempts to continue.

_It's bleak_, Harry thinks. Their future is so bleak. They've barely begun, and this is what they've already become.

"It's fine," Harry insists, straddling Draco with purpose and sliding Draco's shirt off him, running a hand over that chest riddled with scars — one longer and paler than others — and touching, just touching. "Please," he's not sure what he's really asking here, but, "Stay."

Draco's expression is anguished when he meets Harry's gaze, his long fingers moving to encircle Harry's wrist on his skin. His lips are parted, his pupils dilated, and Harry has never wanted anyone more in his life, never wanted Draco more than he does now. He fights the urge to cry out, to break something, with how final everything feels, even if all that matters is that they are together now, hot and urgent and in love; not that they even understand if that's what they really are.

Harry doesn't really understand anything, not anymore.

"Stay, Draco," Harry wraps an arm sinuously around Draco's neck, sliding down his back, relishing in the dampness of his lover's skin. He doesn't know if he's asking Draco to stay the night, or to stay and not leave him, or — "Please."

Hands slide up his shirt in turn, and then his buttons are sliding out of his shirts with remarkable deftness and Draco swallows, presses his forehead against Harry's chest and pauses for what feels like eternity before he answers: "Okay."

Harry closes his eyes.

It's not an admission of love — it never is — and he's resigned himself to never getting one after tonight. Harry doesn't know where they're going from here. He doesn't know if this will last, if this terrible chasm yawning in his heart will grow and engulf them both in his despair.

He pushes Draco down on the bed, throwing his shirt off. It has to be enough, he decides bitterly, looking down at the fragile and proud Slytherin beneath him. It has to be enough for now.

But it won't be enough forever.

_Fin_


End file.
